Don Emilio Baromillo observed all this with a frown. The customs man, Esteban Larocha, grew excited.
“Come along, Skye!”
“I think not,” said Skye.
“What? What? Grab him, men.”
The seamen, none of whom Skye had seen before, swarmed him and tossed him to the rocky ground. Skye fell hard, hurting himself in the shoulder. Victoria was circling around behind the ensign, though Skye could not fathom why unless to grab his sword.
“Alto!” said Baromillo, in a voice that brooked no resistance. “This is Méjico!”
“I don’t care where it is, we’re taking this man with us,” Plover bellowed.
“Alto,” the don snapped. “Do you want to taste my sword, ensign?”
“It’s none of your bloody business,” Plover retorted.
“It is Méjico’s business. When a man is forcibly taken from our country, it is our business. Let him go. I will tell you now, release him.”
Larocha sprang into the action. “I will get el gobernador. This makes the war! Madre Dios, what insolence!”
That sobered Plover a moment, but his defiance bloomed again. “Go ahead, get your army for all I care. This man’s wanted by the Royal Navy and we’ll take him.”
Baromillo pressed forward and spoke in that low deadly tone that commands instant attention. “This hombre you want to kidnap is a Hudson’s Bay man brought here by Capitan Simpson. I will not allow this to happen, not on our soil. England will not be welcome here if you take him without our consent. Go resupply elsewhere. This is not your country. It is the Republica de Méjico. Tell that to your capitan.” He turned to Larocha. “Fetch the guardia, and el gobernador, pronto, pronto.”
Skye rubbed his aching shoulder and clambered slowly to his feet, well aware of the sharp blade switching back and forth like a cat’s tail and hovering inches from his body. He brushed sand off his frock coat, retrieved his top hat, and stood quietly, his mind awhirl with calculation.
“Thank you, Don Emilio,” he said quietly. “I would like to have your governor settle this matter. I am indeed Barnaby Skye, and I am in the fur business and associated with the Hudson’s Bay Company. I have been in the fur business six years.”
“They call you a criminal, Senor Skye.”
“I know of no crime that I’ve committed.”
“Desertion!” Plover yelled.
Skye did not deny it. He ignored Plover and addressed the powerful Mexican directly and quietly. “A man pressed into service against his will does what he must. An unbound English freeman who is made a slave at the age of thirteen, snatched off the streets of London, has every right to free himself. I served seven years, and now am a free man on Mexican soil, engaging in an honorable trade, welcomed here by your officials.”
“The Crown wants him,” Plover blustered. “If you won’t let us have him, the Crown will be displeased, and you’ll hear from our envoys.”
Plover was not going to surrender his prize lightly.
Baromillo waved a hand impatiently, as if to discourage a pesky fly. “That will be up to the authorities. Perhaps they will release him to you. But you will not drag him away, not on Méjican soil. If you do, you will face my own good Toledo sword, and you will regret your conduct the second your beating heart feels my steel. Do you wish to test me?”
That quieted Ensign Plover and his men.
They waited in the bright Monterey sun. Skye calculated his chances of escape and found them nonexistent. Even if he should escape the navy, Mexican soldiers would track him down fast. He had never seen this country and wouldn’t know where to go; it was their home and they would catch him. He stared bleakly at Victoria and the dog, and had no answer for them as they watched him.
Some eternity later a squad of uniformed soldiers from the presidio appeared, the tramp of their boots thudding a cadence through the narrow streets of the province’s capital. Along with them came a corpulent, dark, warm-eyed man with a cheerful and imperial air. The soldiers were armed with pikes and muskets. Don Baromillo translated.
“El gobernador is not present, but I am Amarilla, his devoted and loyal lieutenant. What is this I hear? Does the British navy snatch a man off the streets of Monterey, the capital of Alta California?”
Plover made his case in vehement terms, talking furiously while the don translated calmly.
Amarilla considered the case only briefly. “We will hold this man for the gobernador. He is due here within a fortnight, having matters to deal with at his estancia, including the birth of a seventh child, the theft of angora goats, the training of a dozen horses, and a daughter who wishes to marry an unworthy lout from the City of the Angels.”
“But we’re sailing this evening!”
Amarilla shrugged. “El gobernador will be pleased to entertain your petition, and listen as well to this hombre and his petition, si? There is a small fee involved. Perhaps he will turn this man over to you. He wishes for relations between the English and the province of Alta California, en Mejico, to be warm and fruitful, eh?”
“A reward! I’ll return to my ship and we’ll supply a bounty for this man. Give me two hours and the bounty will be yours. We want him. Ten pounds for this man! I will get it from the strongbox. The commodore will be pleased.”
Amarilla shrugged. “Show us the papers against him, and the amount of the bounty, and perhaps justice will be accomplished in time for your sailing. How could this man be worth so much, eh? He does not look like a criminal, except for that vast and noble nose. Perhaps it is true that evil men are revealed by the size of their noses. That is a theory to look into.”
Skye watched his chances diminish to nothing. All this was hard for Victoria to follow, but she signaled to him that she understood. Whatever his chances, everything would be up to her. But to think it was to know that she could do nothing. She was a Crow Indian from the mountains. She had scarcely set foot in such a world as this.
At least he had a better chance among the Mexicans than he did with the navy. The Mexicans might detain him but would not kill him. He was sure of it now: the longstanding resentment at Skye’s escape long ago had not diminished, but had become a legend in the admiralty. There would be many a cheerful ensign and lieutenant and captain and commodore toasting Plover this evening. And tomorrow, at sea, they would tie Skye to the webbing under the bowsprit of one of those vessels of war, give him a knife but no water, and let him settle his own fate.
So it had come down to cash. Amarilla was not above a little financial improvement, so long as it could be clothed in bounty and warrants and all the rest of the trappings of international law. Skye knew his life wasn’t worth a shilling just then.
They marched him up hill through the dirt streets of Monterey, past lovely whitewashed houses with shuttered windows and red-tile roofs, past staring women and children and old men, all of them dressed in a bright and showy manner, velvet coats and pantaloons, soft slippers, gaudy sashes, thick tortoiseshell combs, and delicate mantillas over jet hair. They were beautiful people, warm-fleshed and handsome, but they eyed him soberly as he passed, surrounded by the stern blue-and-white uniformed soldiers with the pike poles and muskets.
Skye watched Victoria and No Name follow, unnoticed, for they posed no threat nor did reward hang over her head. She wore European clothing and her dusky features could not even be distinguished from those of the Californios. They paid her no heed, and that was good. She would help if she could, but neither he nor she had the slightest plan or any place to escape to. He could not go back to Simpson. The master would probably turn him over to the navy without a second thought.
They arrived at the presidio, a small whitewashed post with commanding views of the blue bay. Skye passed through thick adobe walls into an inner yard, and was led to a small room guarded by a massive wooden door. Victoria paused, and then entered the yard, the dog wandering casually at her side. At least she would know where he was taken, where to find him if she could free him. The soldiers paid
her no heed. The last he saw of her, she was hovering just a dozen yards away, her eyes drinking him in.
Amarilla ushered him into a small bare room, lit only by a high barred window, and without any furniture of any sort. “Senor Skye, welcome to Méjico,” he said, smiling not at all kindly. “A thousand pardons for this indignity. Perhaps your visit will be brief, or so we both may hope, si?”
thirty–one
The old helplessness visited him once again. He had spent more time than he cared to think about confined in one cage or another. The navy was very good at shackling or confining a man. Now he was snared once again, this time in a mean dirt-floored trap with stained and pocked walls and a tiny grilled window, too small to crawl through, high above.
The place stank. A filthy corner served as the latrine. He paced a circle restlessly, knowing it would do no good, but then willed himself to quiet his spirits. His liberty had vanished and there was little he could do but wait. He slumped against the gummy wall as far from the stinkhole as he could. He could see a few inches of blue sky through that window. For six sweet years he had seen all of the heavens each day.
He remembered his ancient vow: he would die rather than live where he could not see the sky without bars between it and his eyes. He had wrestled his way free by placing his liberty ahead of his life. More than once he had told others that he would die before he would be taken. He had meant it. But now, in a lax moment he had let himself be captured.
But this was only the beginning of the story. He did not know how this would end, but he knew, once again, that he would not board a naval warship alive. If they took him, he would fight them to death. The thought hardened his resolve but didn’t console him. His life as a free man had been indescribably sweet, and he had won the respect of the mountaineers, rising to brigade leader. He had come into himself at last.
Time stalled. It always did in confinement. A few minutes seemed like an hour. A day seemed like a month. He had learned that lesson long ago. So he found patience, knowing that all this would come to a head swiftly if what the ensign said was true.
Ten pounds bounty. That puzzled him. He couldn’t imagine the pinch-pursed Royal Navy squandering ten pounds to snare a deserter. Ten pounds for a bloody tar who’d slipped overboard six years earlier? For what? To prosecute him as an example to other seamen? Or just because Skye had become a dark legend in the admiralty? He didn’t know. He didn’t even know why the admiralty had taken such an interest in him. No other seaman in the admiralty’s memory had tried longer or harder to escape, and no other sailor had been subjected to such harsh measures to prevent it, and yet Skye had found a way, defeating his lord jailors at last.
Daylight slipped by and no one came. The presidio stayed chill, swept by sea breezes that trumped the mercies of the sun. The coldness and darkness drifted through Skye’s body and mind, reducing him to melancholia. He felt raw fear, and hated it.
He wondered where Victoria was. She lacked so much as a shilling to purchase tripe for herself and the dog. She had never bought anything at a market before, never pushed a coin across a counter, but she had seen how white men did things at rendezvous, and again at Fort Vancouver. The warren in which he was confined did not face any street, but stood near the rear of the presidio. He had no way of tossing a coin or two to her. He wondered what she was doing, his lady of miracles. She knew nothing of forts or presidios. They were all fearsome mysteries to her. She had scarcely even seen a permanent building before. But now she knew their uses, including the use put to this bleak closet.
More time drained by, and the light shifted as the sun progressed across the tiny window. He was practiced enough at confinement to know that two, three, maybe four hours had gone by without the arrival of the Royal Navy and its Judas coin.
No one came. No one cracked the door to look in on him. No one delivered water or food. He thirsted, after the morning spent in bright sun. Soon he would hunger, too. He heard nothing without; no soldiers tramping, no shouts, no conversation, no bustle of daily toil, no bugles. Only a mortuary silence, as if the world had forgotten this place or the raging man caged within it.
He began to suffer. His tongue rasped sand. His throat swelled. The light shifted again, darkening to azure by several shades, and he knew the night was stealthily approaching. And still no one came. He rose, paced restlessly to relieve his cramped muscles, round and round his globe, moving nowhere at all, wearing a groove in the earth; a groove already begun by those who had been thrown in here before him. But walking kept him sane.
Darkness fell, and he knew that ten or eleven hours had elapsed since he had been tossed in here and held for ransom, politely described as bounty offered by the king’s men for a man who had escaped their control. By dusk, when the light faded and the room plunged into a gloom just shy of blackness, he knew that no bounty was offered for the likes of Skye, and that the commodore of this squadron, whoever that might be, had probably laughed the ensign out of his presence.
Skye hammered on the massive door, thinking perhaps he had been forgotten. But no one responded. By full dark he was desperate for water, his mouth dusty and his throat seared by every breath.
Maybe they would kill him. Maybe this was some sort of local hospitality. Maybe he would die a slow, anguished death from dehydration. He hammered wildly on the door, thumping it with his boots and fists, and heard only the echoing silence.
The cold filtered in and chilled him. He pressed into a corner to conserve what heat he could, and finally slumped into a long bleak quietness as the minutes and hours ticked by.
Dark thoughts visited him. What would poor Victoria do after they let him die? She knew nothing of these people or their tongue. He thought of his father, the man he would not see. The family he would not see. The lanes of London he would not see. The royal pardon, making him a free subject of the Crown, he would never hold in hand.
The HBC ship must have sailed. Simpson planned to pull out while there was yet daylight and make for Cape Horn, with only provisioning stops en route.
He lost track of time. Thirst tortured him and that was all he thought of.
And then, strangely, he fathomed the clack of bars and bolts, and the door opened. A man holding a small candle-lamp appeared. He carried an earthen jug and handed it to Skye, who drank, and again, and again, and then again as fast as his body could accept the sweet water. Skye drank until he had drained the entire earthen jug.
What a miracle was water. Food a man could do without for some while, but not water. Swiftly Skye’s body stopped protesting, and he stood.
That was when Amarilla appeared, sidling through the door like some ghost.
“Senor, may your time in Méjico be blessed and prosperous, and may you enjoy Alta California, which is next to God’s own paradise in comforts and consolations. May you be a friend to all Californios, and may we welcome you to our province with honors and true and holy affection, as prescribed by the holy fathers.”
“It’s about time you came.”
“Ah, Senor Skye. The English do not waste uno centavo on you. No bounty. It’s a pity. The ensign, he said your price was ten pounds. Ah! That is a fortune, senor. That would make a poor official comfortable. The gobernador pays so little, you know. A few pesos a month, and your servant has a large family to support because my esposa is a lusty woman. It is too bad he is not here to take care of this matter.”
“Am I free?”
The governor’s lieutenant sighed. “How I wish for your sake that it could be, senor.”
“What’s holding me here? I’m a visitor.”
“Ah, amigo, you are here for the crime of being here too long without permission. Have you papers? Did el gobernador approve that you should be here?”
“I was forcibly brought to this prison.”
“Ah, amigo Skye, it is a crime nonetheless. The fine is ten English pounds.”
“I don’t have that.”
“It is a pity, si?”
Skye pull
ed his small leather purse from his frock coat. “This is what I have. It is something less than five pounds. A lot of money.”
Amarilla hoisted the purse and poured out the glinting coins in his hands. “Where is the rest? No gentleman travels without much more. I have seen the English and the Yankees.”
“Search,” said Skye. He handed his frock coat to the bureaucrat, who made diligent search.
“Is that enough?” Skye demanded sharply.
“Ah, senor, it is enough to satisfy one of the charges, but not the other.”
“What other charge?”
“Vagrancy. You are now a man without a centavo, without a home, without means of support, a wanderer among us. Therefore a vagrant. We have laws against it. A pity, senor. Such a fine foreign gentleman. So we must detain you here until you acquire means—”
That was too damned much for Skye. He leapt at Amarillo, grabbed him by the throat, and rattled him.
“Aargh!” the man cried.
The old soldier, who had supplied the water, sprang at Skye, who decked him with one massive blow. The man tumbled to the ground, senseless. His lantern smashed and the candle died. Skye peered swiftly about. He had no idea what time it was, but his best guess was somewhere midway between midnight and dawn. The presidio slept. Everything was so black and unfamiliar that he scarcely knew how to let himself out of the presidio.
He lifted the bureaucrat to his feet and grabbed a handful of shirt.
“Take me to the gate,” he said. “And if you make a sound, you’ll feel my boot.”
This wee-hours visit was odd, and Skye sensed that the man did not want to be seen there, cleaning Skye out of every shilling he possessed. Some things were so shameful that only darkness could cloak them.
The man led him past looming buildings to the gate, which was wide open and unguarded. Now at last Skye could see the whole peninsula and the bay far below in the soft moonglow.
“Give me my purse, you pirate,” Skye whispered.
Amarilla resisted, whining like a pig that sees the knife approach its throat, so Skye dug around until he found it.
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